Some they avoided a poor ant's funeral
No drums, no marching and no bugles,
Not much crowd as expected
Only few relatives behind the anthill.
The President of ants has sent a deepest sympathy
That's saying; 'Sorry, I am not able to attend your funeral
As I have to be present in an Elephant's wedding.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Beat! Beat! Drums!
BEAT! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows--through doors--burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with
his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his
grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers
must sleep in those beds; 10
No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--Would they
continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the
judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums--you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley--stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the
hearses, 20
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
They attend a funeral robed in white, and a wedding in mourning.
The Painter on Silk
There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.
He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting
And only thought
Of roses.
The day the conquerors
Entered the city,
The old man
Lay dying.
He heard the bugles and drums,
And wished he could paint the roses
Bursting into sound.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dirge For Two Veterans
THE last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath,
On the pavement here--and there beyond, it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles; 10
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them. 20
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the day-light o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd;
('Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.)
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! 30
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wedding Day at the Circus Tent
She loved the trapeze
He loved the lion tamers
They both loved fried
carbohydrates.
It was a match made
by a ringleader
in a Barnum and Bailey
heaven
a little too lovely to question.
So I was in a groomsman tuxedo
lined up in front of marching elephants
while jugglers on unicycles
wobbled through the aisles
and fire eaters
spat fireballs over the wedding guests
like a thrown bouquet.
I recall bitterness on my part,
and the peaty acidic air
that clung around the growing perimeter of
elephant dung,
constantly churned and softened
by clumsy feet, the stink of corn and waste
reintroduced with every step.
I wish I had the presence of mind
to smell it
at my own wedding.
poem by John W. McEwers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
One Small Victory
just one small victory
comes from the ant
winning the bid
in carrying this crumb
of bread
sans feeling
of love or liking
for the Queen
in the name of the Kingdom
the anthill
shall celebrate
it will be a holiday today
the soldier ants
in laxity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Czar
Descend in rain, despise the forgotten,
Take some, some ants just marching like their own,
In this the rain, the flood, the warmth of sea,
The waves shall terrify my youth - water!
A meeting concentrates so fast and slow,
Instead it mingles with the crowd of lads,
A revolution stands and sits from them.
My corn is bleeding out, is blaming us,
Just working hard, inside me so rightly.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Ants
their anthill
is the most powerful
territory
they ever built
for months now
their knows what
real business is all about
being fed
and then
reproduce for the
greatness of
their anthill
empire
the anteater comes
wanting to disprove
this fact
the truth is
everything is nothing
but predator-prey
without
exception
even your
religion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
We are anthill men upon an anthill world.
quote by Ray Bradbury
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Wedding Bells
Wedding bells are ringing in the chapel
that should have been ringing
out for you and me.
Now down the isle you walk
with someone else on your arm
instead of me.
We thought in our love
we had everything
until he came along
and swept you off your feet
taking you from my loving arms.
Now up the isle you go with him
to take your wedding vows
as I stand watching,
just another face in the crowd.
I could say something
but I won’t,
as this is your wedding day.
I shall simply slip into the shadows
and then slowly slip away.
You have a new life before you,
one I hope will bring you joy
as the wedding bells keep ringing
for your wedding day.
24 July 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Death comes to wedding
Truth has been loitering around her like a devil's advocate.
Found its alighting on her singular day
It came out and cleft her up
Like a walnut under elephant foot
She looks at me with her eyes
Like two full moons fading in the clouds
Swayed side to side like a young palm tree on windy day
The sky was filled with a loud hiss
She converged all the sorts of sobs
Fell on a ground like an animal ready for lion's lunch
The attendants instigated weeping and wailing
As if her hiss was a song
Until they had furrows of tears in their cheeks
Like it was aftermath of her funeral
Jilted on her wedding
That's the Truth that smite.
To me! It was like bloody meat in the lion's teeth
And her wedding became her untimely death
Already organizing her autopsy
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Fury Of Rain Storms
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitched on and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Distant Drums
Cindy walker
I hear the sound of distant drums
Far away, far away
And if they call for me to come
Then I must go and you must stay
So mary marry me, lets not wait
Lets share all the time we can
Before its too late
And love me now
For now is all the time there may be
And if you love me mary, mary marry me
I hear the sound of bugles blow
Far away, far away
And if they call then I must go
Who knows where or who can say?
So mary marry me, lets not wait
For those distant drums
Might change our wedding day
And love me now
For now is all the time there may be
And if you love me mary, mary marry me
Yes if you love me mary, mary marry me
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Of Ants and Life
…guess me correct
of ants and life they connect
causing a traffic jam on their trails I cannot forget
of ants as they swam from tree barks to get
a source of existence cannot let
the ants in drought to starve
for food is what they have once collected
and stored;
that which none has never rejected
nor objected
of ants and life
the futuristic species
that know when to pick up the pieces
of anything,
and the guard ants making sure nothing misses
from whence it were piled and stored
of ants and life ‘am never bored
as I observed how they nod
in respect and honor on board
as they pass each other a hustle they accord
of ants and life as they seek to conform
to a life in all its form
if ants can manage their own
why can’t we not of our own?
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Life Lived
Life of spite and defiance
To watch people tooling around on Mars
To celebrate the end of the last war
To attend the funeral of corporate personhood
76th wedding anniversary walking across the dry Ganga
Hundredth birthday drinking my age in pints of beer
Why don't you join me? Consider yourself invited
To throw a bushel of rose petals from the space elevator
Zero emissions ambulance sweeping me to the hospital
And I'll saddle up my Horse for the ride home
All bad things must one day end and so will I
poem by Tribhuvan Mendiratta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Wedding Day
My wedding day
The day before it we had a fight
Bits and pieces stay in the mind
Your tears and my fright
For all you would not say,
Became as a wall between us that night.
My wedding day
So many lights
Wanting to disappear into the crowd
Can't you take me away?
Please, listen......
Hear the words I am afraid to say.
My wedding day
Why in the world am I here?
This isn't truly where I long to be....
Please, just say the words,
The ones you'd speak to set me free.
My wedding day
A smile on my face to mask the sorrow
This wasn't what I wanted....
I've truly only wanted you.
The biggest mistake I'll ever make...
Are these vows I'm about to take.
My wedding day
And in the end I am in your arms
But for only heartbeat; a moment-
You hold me close as your tears overflow.
All I ever really wanted was to hold you....
And forever it breaks my heart
That you chose to let me go.
Cry of the fatherless son
I will not mourn my father's death
I won't even be struck by his death.
I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,
Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.
As is the custom,
I won't name my first son after him.
My children won't ever see photos of him.
I will not tell them tales
that my father supposedly told me.
His name in my house will never ring a bell,
Neither will he ring my doorbell -
For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,
no matter how old and frail he'll be.
His name in my house shall be forbidden.
But how could I mourn your death?
How would your death strike me?
How could I contribute to your funeral?
Or attend your funeral?
As is custom,
how should I name my son after you?
And how would my children see your photos?
What tales did you tell me,
so I can tell them?
How could your name even ring a bell,
Or you ring my doorbell?
How would I let my dogs loose on you,
An old stranger that I haven't
My eyes set on?
Forgive me.
poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!